


Courier? I Barely Know Her

by doorwaytoparadise, elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cheesy Porn Tropes, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), M/M, NSFW Art, NSFW art embedded in fic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Roleplay, Post-Canon, Roleplay, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), flirty redhead gets railed by a deliveryperson, improper use of miracles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29027508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: "I've got a package.""Yes, you most certainly do."Don't be deceived; Crowley's a terrible actor.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 255
Collections: Ineffablexxx - Directors Cut, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Courier? I Barely Know Her

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, many thanks to [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) and [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap) for their [respective](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xxxIneffable_Directors_Cut/works/28976616) [fics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xxxIneffable_Directors_Cut/works/28957185) featuring ridiculous porn scenarios. I owe you both my entire life. I did not know this was a fic trope I needed to write for, but I'm so glad I did. 
> 
> Second of all, thanks to [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise)/[nothistoryart](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart) for yelling with me a LOT about this concept, and then creating gorgeous art to go with it (art is here, but it's also embedded in the fic!) I am so in love with their art and it was a joy to collaborate with them on this! <3 
> 
> Third, the title is supremely dumb but honestly I think I'm hilarious.
> 
> Fourthmost, thank you to Liquid_Lyrium for the beta read!!!!!! I am eternally grateful!
> 
> Lastly, I am not sorry this is my first fic of 2021. This is the best way to start this year.

It’s less of a robe and more of a hint of a robe. An imitation peignoir made of black lace, the florals abundant in their thread garden. Look close enough and there’s the tiny red detailing of snakes and their scales amongst the foliage. It’s that specific kind of sheer that reveals more than it conceals, and only enough to be tantalizing.

Crowley shouldn't wear it to answer a knock at the door, but he was caught unawares.

There's another knock, infuriatingly polite, when Crowley is only a few steps away. "I'm coming!" he calls out in assurance.

(He will be, if this works out.)

The sun silhouettes the courier at Crowley's front door. Khaki clad, which is a fashion crime at its worst, but the man at the door makes it effortlessly and beautifully worth it. He is beautiful. Crowley only feels mildly guilty for noticing his smile second to his body, but how can he really be blamed? There are calves on display and thighs snugly held in fabric. Crowley's only human (ha) after all; when there's a gorgeous man on his doorstep with so much to admire.

The name tag says Aziraphale.

The shirt showcases buttons at their limit, straining against a chest that Crowley wants to map like a goddamn atlas. Call Crowley a geographer, because he wants to document the topography of that chest and its forest of hair.

Crowley finally rakes his gaze up to Aziraphale's face. By all accounts, the cap on his head in the same khaki material should be ridiculous, but it does not at all deter from the effect it has on Crowley. With all that ensemble, he's still wearing a beatific smile. Crowley wants to lick it.

( _Scene, scene, remember the bloody scene_ Crowley yells at himself when he's tempted to jump in Aziraphale's arms and snog him senseless.)

"Good evening," and that smooth of a baritone should be illegal. "I have a package."

Crowley smirks, leaning against the doorframe and taking the statement as permission to look at this stunning stranger some more. " _Yes_ you most certainly do," Crowley remarks lasciviously, lingering longingly on the bulge in the man's tightly fitting shorts. When Crowley looks up to gauge Aziraphale's reaction, he finally notices the boxes stacked in his right hand. Seven of them, perfectly balanced on top of the other. No shaking hands, no strain.

( _What a show-off_ Crowley thinks, but the demonstration is working for him.)

Crowley, who up to this point had been holding his robe closed in a play at modesty, lets his hand fall to his side and the robe with it. "That's quite a few." Crowley doesn't miss Aziraphale's own glance downward. Had he forgotten to wear pants? Oh, what a travesty. "Come in and deliver them to me, then."

"Of course." Crowley steps aside just enough that Aziraphale has to physically brush past him. There's heat radiating from this man, enough to make Crowley light-headed, and he can smell a subtle combination of cotton and ink. Must be all the paperwork he needs people to fill out.

Crowley closes the door as soon as Aziraphale is fully inside, and leans against it as Aziraphale gets to work. Aziraphale reaches for the top of the not-precarious stack (seriously, not even a tremble. Crowley wants those strong hands to push him against the nearest surface and keep him there while he begs to be fucked) and, instead of moving the entire stack to the floor, removes only the topmost box. In a completely unprecedented move, Aziraphale bends at the waist to place the box on the floor.

Crowley hisses in a sharp breath and hopes to all deities that Aziraphale hears it—hears the moan that hides behind it.

God, that _arse_. The thighs were one thing, but this backside is a thing of beauty. Bernini should have carved it into a marble effigy. Michelangelo would have adored to study it religiously for multiple sketches. Boudoir photographers would kill to get this ass in the right lighting. Maybe even the wrong lighting.

It's a goddamn work of art is the thing.

Aziraphale takes his time straightening up (slowly, too slowly to be an accident). Crowley worries that Aziraphale will realize that he's going about this in the most illogical manner possible, but he doesn't. He just takes the next largest box, bends at the waist again, and places it on the floor just as gingerly as the first.

Crowley doesn't necessarily register back of his head hitting the door, but the sound is loud enough that it causes Aziraphale to look over his shoulder. He looks down to where Crowley's robe has fallen fully open, to where Crowley is obviously, prominently hard. Aziraphale licks his lips. Crowley moans.

Aziraphale turns back around and performs this routine five more times. Sometimes he spreads his legs a little to get better leverage. One time he rolls his hips, completely unnecessary, but Crowley thinks it's only to drive him even more crazy with lust. When the last box is placed neatly on the ground, Aziraphale lingers in his prostrate position and shakes his ass. Honest to someone _shimmies_ in Crowley's general direction.

This is how Crowley will die, he's sure of it.

(Once again, Crowley has to stop himself from tackling Aziraphale to the ground and having his demonically wicked way with him, which includes insisting Aziraphale fuck him immediately.)

Finally, Aziraphale turns around. His cock straining against the fabric and the redness of his cheeks is the only indication of anything about this delivery being anything less than routine. Aziraphale walks forward and Crowley can't tell what kind of intent is in his steps.

Aziraphale produces a clipboard.

(Miracle. Cheater.)

"I'll need your signature." Another smile from Aziraphale. Bright. Infuriating.

Crowley grabs the board from Aziraphale and doesn't even look at the dotted line he writes on, just shoves it back to Aziraphale after he’s done.

Aziraphale studiously looks at what Crowley's written. How he reads in his aroused state, Crowley doesn't know. Rational thought is impossible for Crowley at this point. It's even less likely when Aziraphale meets Crowley's eyes and _smirks_. "You've written down your phone number instead of your signature."

"S'for later," Crowley yelps, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears despite his best efforts to sound suave. "You know. If you wanna...hit me up later. For..." Sex. "Anything."

Aziraphale's smirk softens into a fond smile, but it's only visible for a fraction of a moment before he throws the clipboard across the room and clatters to the floor out of sight. "Why wait?" he announces before grabbing Crowley's hips, leaning forward, and kissing him soundly.

The noises that Crowley had hidden terribly before pour out of him with abandon at Aziraphale's kiss. He's whining in the back of his throat, savoring the taste of Aziraphale on his tongue. The ink and paper scent is even stronger now, making Crowley’s brain feel hazy enough that he wonders briefly how he’s so entranced. Crowley’s desire-numb fingers scrabble for purchase at Aziraphale's back, desperate to touch what he’s admired for the past few minutes. The one brilliant thought Crowley has is to lower his hands to the arse that had been displayed to him so prominently, and he's not at all disappointed at the feel of it in his hands. The fat of it gives deliciously to Crowley's desperate grip, but there's muscle and strength on equal display; it's most evident when Aziraphale decides to grind his hips (and, consequently, his cock) against Crowley.

Crowley doesn't try to stifle the moan this time.

Crowley can feel the wet evidence of his leaking prick against Aziraphale's shorts as he grinds back in arrhythmic tandem. He wants, very desperately, to look down and watch them rutting against each other, but he also doesn't want to break the kiss Aziraphale is so keen on giving him.

"Might," Crowley tries to get words out as Aziraphale’s kisses wander to Crowley's neck, and then to his exposed shoulder. It's an endeavor, to say the least. "Might come all over you soon. Just a warning."

"This is the last stop on my route," Aziraphale assures him between bites to his collarbone. "So there’s no need to worry about my uniform. However, I have something else in mind for you." He leans up to whisper in Crowley's ear "Turn around for me, baby."

(It's really not fair that Aziraphale is more committed to this roleplay than Crowley is. Although, it makes sense once he remembers how intensely Aziraphale enjoys theater.)

Crowley snaps his own subtle miracle as he turns around (he's the demon here, he's _allowed_ to) and sweeps his robe to one side in order to display himself to Aziraphale fully, bent at the waist and legs spread.

Aziraphale chuckles. "What _were_ you up to before I knocked on your door?"

"Oh, nothing much," Crowley says as conversationally as he can manage. "A bit of fun," which is the perfect explanation for the plug currently inside him. It's subtle, but it's sleek; black silicon, shiny with the lube Crowley miracled alongside it.

"Naughty boy," Aziraphale chastises with no actual reprimand in his tone. He holds onto the base of the plug and fucks Crowley shallowly with it, only providing the barest bit of pressure Crowley wants. "You must be ready for me, then. Having this rubbing at you while watching me must have been _so hard_ ," and _that_ is punctuated by Aziraphale's hand on his cock. Nice touch (literally). "No need to worry. I intend to make you feel very good."

"Fuck me?" Crowley doesn't mean to make it a question, he was actually aiming for a needy demand, but tone is another one of those things not so easily controlled in his current state. He hears the sound of a belt unbuckling and a zipper being pulled down. "Oh _fuck_ , please fuck me?"

"Of course," Aziraphale says, but it in no way prepares Crowley for the speed at which Aziraphale removes the plug, maneuvers Crowley into place, and presses cock inside him.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Crowley cries, bracing his forearms against the wall, giving him enough leverage to grind back against Aziraphale. He's fucking him slowly, but Crowley doesn't mind the pace. It gives him ample time to adjust and enjoy the stretch and the press of it. On a whim, but not taking it too seriously, Crowley hisses out "You're so _big_."

Aziraphale freezes. Crowley thinks he might have gone too far into the theatrics of it, and has half a mind to turn around and take the words back before Aziraphale begins to fuck him again, but this time faster. "You like that?"

Crowley moans again. It's getting to be a habit by this point with the frequency of them.

"You like my big, fat cock in you?"

( _Oh. Oh, Aziraphale likes that. Huh. Good to know._ )

"Yes, yes, yes," Crowley cries out with each thrust. Aziraphale's hand returns to his cock and strokes it in time with each thrust. Crowley was wrong before, this is how he's going to die: this orgasm. "Oh God, oh fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah you are," Aziraphale growls. "Come for me."

Crowley does, eyes closed and crying out Aziraphale's name, or something resembling it at least. He can hear the filthy splatter of his spend hitting the door and the floor in quick succession, and Aziraphale's hand doesn’t stop moving, milking him for all he's worth. He's vaguely aware of Aziraphale behind him, cursing as Crowley tightens around him in the throes of pleasure. Crowley expends one last burst of his energy to tighten a fraction more, and that sends Aziraphale over the edge with him, hoarse voice muffled into Crowley's shoulder.

## \--

"So," Aziraphale adjusts his glasses as he types one-handed into the notebook app on Crowley's phone. Clad in nothing but his jumper (sinful in an entirely different way than the delivery man costume was) he's definitely out of character and back to being his comfortable self. "We'll call that a success."

Crowley snorts. He's laying on Aziraphale's thigh, feet kicked up on the sofa's armrests, and also completely naked. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."

"I was worried for a moment that you weren't as committed to the idea, especially around that bit with the size of my—"

"What, I can't ad-lib?" Crowley will deny the blush that takes up permanent residence on his cheeks. "Thought it fit the bill, as it were."

"I just wasn't expecting it, is all." God, the smirk is _so_ evident, even if Crowley can’t see it. It drives Crowley absolutely crazy with rage. And love. Mostly love.

"How many more of these porno scenarios are on this list?" Aziraphale was the one keeping track, despite the list existing on his phone. Of the two of them, Aziraphale was more likely to think up these scenarios, making them increasingly involved and ridiculous. Crowley didn’t mind. He enjoyed it, really. Both the playacting and the fucking were perks.

"I, of course, add more as I think of them, so let's consider it an exponentially increasing list. Ad infinitum."

"S'good thing I'll never get tired of you," Crowley grumbles.

Aziraphale stops typing, and there’s a long pause of silence before his hand drops from the phone into Crowley’s hair. "It's the best thing, I think."


End file.
